


Super Woman Seeks Good Man

by fairywine



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/M, Multi, Other characters to be added as they appear, normal guy!austria, super!hungary, superhero au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-24
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-19 09:46:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3605574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairywine/pseuds/fairywine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fighting crime and the forces of evil? No problem. Getting a date while doing so? Somewhat harder. But anything can happen in W City, the superhero metropolis and home to the great Hungarian super Turul... [AusHun superhero!au]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hetalia Kink Meme Fill, [superhero!Hungary/non-super!Austria](http://hetalia-kink.dreamwidth.org/82590.html?thread=509701790#cmt509701790). [Still in-progress fill]

Glass litters the sidewalk, there are multiple smoking holes dotting the surrounding buildings, and at least one car is overturned, blaring alarm falling on deaf ears. Local law enforcement have already sealed the block off, directing traffic and pedestrians away with practiced ease.   
  
It’s just another night in W City, home to the world’s greatest concentration of super heroes and villains alike.   
  
Well… _almost_  just another night.  
  
“You…stupid…BASTARRRRRDDDD!!!”   
  
The words aren’t said so much as fired out with pure wrath and punctuated by whip fast sword swings. With her glossy brown hair, lovely face and ability to pulverize anyone foolish enough to cross her the superheroine Turul usually ends up compared to the famed Amazons of Greek mythology. At this particular moment and full of all consuming rage, the classic Norse berserker would be a more apt figure.   
  
Fortunately for Turul’s reputation, the only witness to this is the same man responsible for the aforementioned wrath. Istanbull, infamous as much for his inhumanly tough skin and laser-shooting horns as his tendency to hit up jewelry stores, gives as good as he’s getting. For every few beams Turul quickly reflects back at him with her blade are matched by the ones that nearly hit. Already one cheekbone bleeds from a light graze.   
  
“It that time of month or something? What the hell’s got you so riled up?” Istanbull drawls snidely at her before lowering his head and charging. Turul’s sword gets knocked away, but she snatches the horns up instead and crushes them into so much useless scrap between clenched fists.   
  
“Say that again and you’re going to have to change your name to Istanox,” Turul snaps, her knee slamming right into his face. In a daze the supervillian stumbles back before turning into a feint and dropping into a quick sweep to throw his foe off her feet.   
  
Little good it does, Turul throwing herself into a lithe series of backflips that puts her in a perfect position to snatch up her fallen sword. In the blink of an eye the superheroine dashes lightning fast in a compliment to the thunderous force of her weapon. Hit after hit rains down to leave Istanbull on the defensive, barely blocking any serious strikes with crossed arms and swift footwork to cut down the impact.   
  
Titanium-hard flesh holds out so far, but each blow from Turul’s weapon sends out a greater succession of sparks where skin shows under shredded clothes. Moving with a speed unexpected from a man his size, the swarthy supervillain slips out of her immediate range. Jewels taken from his interrupted heist spilling out on the abused concrete with the speed of his movement, he scales up the side of one the office buildings to make for the roof.  
  
Undeterred and still extremely furious, Turul tracks Istanbull’s ascent with narrowed green eyes. Strong legs flex before she leaps up, clearing the top of the building with a single bound to meet her foe just as he pulls up onto the ledge. Even behind the white mask covering his face, Istanbull’s eyes widen in fearful anticipation.   
  
“Dammit, this isn’t even part of your beat, it’s Matador’s-”  
  
“I had a date!” Turul yells, grabbing him by the collar before hurling him back down to the ground with all the considerable force she is capable of mustering. The only response she gets is the sound of the ground shattering with a noise like fifty jackhammers going off at once, but Turul doesn’t even bother to wait for that. Jumping down from the building, she lands right on his chest with enough power to later require the police to use construction tools to free Istanbull from the crater.

“I had a date, and I  _really_  like this guy, and you had to interrupt right in the middle of dinner, and you  _had_  to pick a jewelry store that was right across from the restaurant, and I’ll be lucky if he’s even willing to talk to me when I ran off after the amuse-bouche course much less  _ask me out again_ , and…”  
  
Turul’s voice trails off, partly because Istanbull is unconscious by this point and ranting is pointless but mostly because she’s worn out the rush of anger fighting. Feeling the drain, she just sighs and turns on her heel to walk to the barricade the police erected up.  
  
“He’s all yours, Lieutenant Jones,” Turul says tiredly. The cop’s eyes widen as he checks out the extent of the damage, excessive even by W City standards.  
  
“Is there anything left to take?” Lieutenant Jones asks, and there’s an undertone under his usual energetic voice that tells Turul the question isn’t entirely a joke.  
  
“With this guy, he’ll walk it off.” Turul pauses. “Later rather than sooner, but that toughness is nothing to sneer at. Try to keep him locked up a little longer this time, okay?”  
  
Before the blond policeman can say anything, Turul soars off into the night sky befitting the mythical beast she is named for. Flying usually livens her spirit up, but she’s still too depressed over what had started out as a very promising evening going straight to hell. Lost in her own thoughts, by the time Turul touches down to the ground it takes her a moment to realize she’s ended up at a small park just a short walk from the restaurant. There isn’t a soul around, everyone having sensibly fled once lasers were being fired about, and it’s as good a place as any to go back to her civilian dr-  
  
“Elizabeta?”   
  
Turul whirls around and sees her date rise from a bench that had been mostly hidden behind a large tree. ‘ _Careless_ ,’ she thinks distantly, but all she feels now is her stomach sinking to new lows.  
  
It’s not fair. She really does like Roderich Edelstein. But there’s no way things will go anywhere now.  
  
“Stay calm, citizen! It is merely I, the superheroine Turul,” she begins with a lofty speech she’s not really feeling up to at the moment.  
  
“…Elizabeta, I know it’s you,” Roderich says, and the worry that had been in his cultured voice is modulated with a kind of  _did-you-bump-your-head_  sort of concern. “I mean, you’ve got that little mask on and you’re wearing a…very different outfit…but I can still clearly tell it’s you-”  
  
“W-well, that’s just-” Turul stutters, thrown. She knows Roderich is only a month long resident of W City, but surely he knows there’s an  _etiquette_  here. One doesn’t  _point out_  that there but for a pair of thick glasses that mild mannered reporter looks a lot like a man of steel. It just isn’t done. The city would fall to pieces. “I-”  
  
Before Turul can start her surely convincing argument as to why she is most certainly not Elizabeta Héderváry, not-so-mild-mannered-but-still-quite-nice-generally fencing instructor, Roderich frowns and takes a step closer.  
  
“You’re bleeding.” Gently, he pulls out a soft handkerchief and dabs it lightly where her cheek had been grazed earlier. “I’m sorry, I should have seen to that first.” Peering closer, Roderich scans her for any other injuries. “Do you need to go to a hospital, or-”  
  
“No, I’m fine,” Turul says, and lays her hand atop his own where it still touches her cheek. “Accelerated healing. It’s just dried from earlier.”  
  
Together they stand in a moment that silent and awkward but not painfully so. Roderich’s face isn’t that expressive at the best of times, and even though Turul can usually guess at what’s going on underneath she can’t now. But he doesn’t look horrified, or freaked out, so that should count for something. Right?  
  
Berating herself for being more nervous about being upfront with a guy than throwing herself into combat against supervillians, Turul kicks her inner warrior’s spirit into gear.  
  
“I was going to tell you, eventually,” she begins slowly. “Even in a city like this, it’s not easy for civilians to date supers. It looks like you don’t quite know _everything_  about living in W City, so if there’s anything you want to be told…”  
  
Roderich’s face, while still composed as ever, has something more of a relaxed air to it. It’s in his eyes, and how they soften around the corners just a hint. That is one of the things Turul first liked so much about him, these moments like a treasure only she knew about.   
  
“There’s a rather good little café around here, if memory serves. It’s not Vin et Miel, but even so,” Roderich pauses, face flushing slightly, “I’d be happy to hear what you want to tell me, but I’d really just like to get back to our date. ”  
  
“We can do both, I think,” Turul manages, smile blooming like some small flower pushing up the first day of spring. Young and new yet, but still there. “Um, would you just turn around for a second?”  
  
Ever the gentleman Roderich does so, thankfully sparing Turul the embarrassment of a transformation sequence someone had only ever once had the nerve to honestly describe as ‘magical girl-ish’.   
  
“You can look now.”  
  
Roderich turns to see Elizabeta’s face, masked no longer by cloth or anything more than nerves mixed with a sweet kind of hope.   
  
“Shall we?” Roderich offers her his arm, the affectation truly touching. With a glad heart Elizabeta takes it, leaning just a bit into his side.   
  
“Let’s,” Elizabeta says, smiling as they start their slow stroll out of the park.  
  
“…I might need your help finding it, though,” Roderich adds, faint embarrassment coloring his voice, and Elizabeta’s answering laugh rings out in the night. 

* * *

I make no apologies for Istanbull. That pun was  _begging_ to be brought to life.

Additionally a quick google search will reveal exactly  _one_  significant difference between bulls and oxen, for those readers of an inquisitive nature. Though I’m sure in context it isn’t hard to guess exactly what that happens to be.

[Turul](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Turul)-The Turul is a holy bird (most scholars believe it to be modeled on a falcon), that has been one of the great symbols of the Magyar people for centuries. Embodying power, strength, and nobility, it was the perfect fit for a Hungary superhero name. Turul's outfit is basically official art armored Hungary as seen [here](http://i822.photobucket.com/albums/zz143/Hitomiixx3/hungary.jpg?t=1279113055) with the addition of your typical superhero domino mask.

I ended up taking a year long break from this fill, but I hope to spur myself into finishing it via posting my completed chapters here. Either way, thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

There are two beginnings to Elizabeta’s story.

One is a vision of massive wings, and a voice that resonates with strength and noble purpose.

Another involves some truly amazing coffee, deliberately inaccurate directions, a rainy day, and a stalled car, though not necessarily in that order.

The first belongs to the superheroine Turul. The second is more mundane but in its own humble way, no less life changing.

The romanticism of superhero life loses some of its glitter when the reality of rent and food bills dulls the shine of it all. Credit card companies have yet to accept good intentions as a form of payment, and the warm glow of satisfaction caused by saving lives isn’t as effective a heating system as an actual heater. When not fighting crime and the forces of evil, Turul aka Elizabeta Héderváry makes her daily bread as a master fencing teacher. Elizabeta’s fenced her entire life, and she’s damn good at it-really damn good-even without taking super agility into account. More than good enough to make a decent living doing private instruction, classes, and the occasional stuntwork job. Her little fencing school Vívó is on a thoroughfare connecting the shopping district of W City with its business one, and as a result there’s always a heavy flow of pedestrian traffic. Usually Elizabeta doesn’t pay passersby any mind beyond the wide windows she has to give the best possible view of class in session, which has gotten her more than one new student.

That changes the day she meets Roderich Edelstein.

Elizabeta notices him in an absent, _hey-not-bad_ way when he first passes by her window, but then Astrid asks for some help on her footwork and she doesn’t spare the man another thought.

When Roderich passes by a second time about thirty minutes later and from the opposite direction he originally came from Elizabeta’s too busy fixing the fit of Xiao Mei’s plastron to do more than wonder what kind of man wears a jabot in this day and age.

The third time Roderich passes by Elizabeta only realizes because he happens to get in the background of the shot she is taking of Erik and Matthias mid-bout…for her website of course. Such lovely dynamic tension between the Scandinavians just draws attention marvelously and she definitely has no ulterior motive in snapping off a few pictures. If Vívó’s online gallery of class session pictures happens to feature an awful lot of men fencing with other men, that’s neither here nor there.

By the fourth sweep of Roderich’s increasingly familiar form class session has ended and practically everyone has already left. As is it Elizabeta is much more occupied with flipping through the pictures she’s taken on her ever present digital camera and contemplating exactly how much Photoshop work will be needed to fix the studio’s lighting and really bring out the…amoro…passionate gleam in Erik’s eyes that contrasts so wonderfully to his staid expression and Matthias’s lively, open one-

“Elizabeta, I’m leaving now,” Astrid breaks her train of thought. Setting her camera down, Elizabeta can see her student’s lips pressed together in a concern she hasn’t vocalized.

“Everything alright?”

“Well, I…I was just a little worried about you being by yourself here. Haven’t you noticed that man walking by over and over again?” Astrid hesitates briefly, a slight internal struggle evident. “My boyfriend’s here, but I can call him and stay if you want.”

Knowing this springs from genuine concern for her well being makes it a little easier for Elizabeta to resist laughing. It’s not like the girl is aware of how little threat an ordinary man is to her, even one that’s armed. Instead, Elizabeta merely smiles in a reassuring way and pats her shoulder.

“I appreciate it, but there’s no need to worry. Besides, I’d feel bad for keeping your guy waiting.”

Reluctant as Astrid still looks she does take her leave, the door clicking quietly shut behind her. Through the window Elizabeta sees her run up to a tall, blonde young man and embrace him with a great deal of enthusiasm before they walk off hand in hand.

The sight leaves a strange sort of pang in Elizabeta’s heart. It’s not like she’s never dated before, far from it, and she has people she’s cared about. But that sweet, thrilling rush of giving so much of yourself over to someone else and receiving much the same she had seen on her student’s face is an alien land. Elizabeta’s hands are full enough balancing her own two worlds without needing to juggle a third, and she’s never met anyone who has made her want to try.

It doesn’t bother her. Not really. Elizabeta’s an old hand at the hero game. The eight years that has been her career since donning the heroic identity Turul at fifteen practically makes her a veteran. It’s hard work but she’s proud of what she does and wouldn’t change it for anything. Wondering what could have been happens to everyone, after all. It’s part of being human, super or not. Sighing a little at herself for sounding such the old woman, Elizabeta closes up Vívó and locks the door securely.

Stepping out onto the street, the afternoon sun paints everything a fine champagne gold. Letting the gentle warmth wash pleasantly over her, it takes a moment for Elizabeta to notice the man who had so recently been the subject of discussion standing just a few doors down. There’s a piece of paper in his hand, and he stares at it like it contains the secrets of the universe and happens to be taunting him with the fact.

Has…has he just been lost this whole time? The thought tickles Elizabeta so much she approaches, gently clearing her throat to announce her presence.

“Excuse me, I couldn’t help noticing you’ve been wandering this street for a while. Did you need directions?”

The man turns so Elizabeta sees his face in full for the first time, and oh. Even sprinkled with frustration and dashed with embarrassment it’s a very appealing one, straddling a very blurred line between pretty and handsome. It’s a Romantic face in the old school sense of the word, dark hair and violet eyes that wouldn’t have seemed out of place amongst Goethe or Byron.

“I do have directions,” he says a little stiffly before sighing. “For all the good they seem to be, that is.”

“May I see? I know this area pretty well.” Elizabeta gives him a friendly smile and holds her hand out. “I’m Elizabeta Héderváry. I run the fencing school just down a ways.”

“Roderich Edelstein.” Instead of the handshake she expects, he clasps her hand up before bowing. It’s an old fashioned gesture, certainly, but somehow it feels perfectly natural coming from him. “Musician. I apologize for troubling you over this.”

“It’s no trouble, I promise,” Elizabeta says as Roderich hands his directions over. “Oh, Golden Fields Music Conservatory? I have a friend who does choral lessons there. It’s really not…too…far…”

Elizabeta’s voice trails off, but that’s a natural symptom of stunned silence. Holding Roderich’s directions closer to her face tells her no she is not imagining the words written down on them, and yes that is a slight twitch in her fingers and the most inexplicable urge to get her frying pan and start swinging.

_Specs-_

_Here are some awesome directions from the ~awesome me~! These should be simple enough even you can’t go wrong. If you do somehow, pray to God for a better sense of direction. Kesesesesesese!!!_

_-The Awesome Lord Gil_

There’s a little drawing of a bird beside the crude map sketch. Elizabeta stares at it almost in self defense, because the only other options are looking at the words (still giving her that urge for her frying pan), or the map (so ludicrously wrong she hopes ‘Gil’ did it on purpose because someone who sincerely pens out something that inaccurate needs watching). _He had actually written out a laugh_. Who even does something like that?

Elizabeta has met some special personality types across her career, but this…

“Um, it looks like the person who drew this mixed up Kent Lane and Stark Way,” Elizabeta says diplomatically. Among many, many other things.

“I’m only recently arrived in W City. I thought asking my cousin would be sufficient considering he has lived here almost a year. But I understand Gilbert does not often venture to this part of town. I’m sure he will feel the better for having his knowledge corrected. It would be terrible if he happened to get lost himself, after all,” Roderich says in the tones of a man who means quite the opposite. Elizabeta expects this Gilbert will be getting an earful and then some once his business is done, and can’t help but approve.

“Indeed. But in the meantime it’s just a short walk to Golden Fields.” At the subtle yet distinct look of panic in Roderich’s eyes she smoothly continues, “I’m headed that direction myself if you don’t mind the company.”

“Not in the slightest,” Roderich’s face loses a little stiffness with his relief. “I’m glad you aren’t being inconvenienced by it.”

Elizabeta waves off any notion she’s being bothered as she starts walking the way to Golden Fields, Roderich keeping a sedate pace beside her. “Like I said, it’s no trouble. How long have you been in W City, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Just over a week,” Roderich says. “I received a position with the W City Philharmonic Orchestra. String section, violin. My real passion is for piano, though. The current player is on contract for six more months and plans to leave once it expires, so ideally I’ll be replacing him when the time comes.”

“Violin and piano? That’s amazing.” Elizabeta laughs a little deprecatingly, “My father played the flute well, but I never inherited any of his talent. Or even all that much of his ear, considering I don’t have much instinct for music outside my preferences.”

“Such as?”

“Liszt, Erkel,” Elizabeta says, pausing to press the crossing light, “and Brahms.”

“I think I detect a pattern,” Roderich says, but there’s a gently playful note she doesn’t miss buried beneath perfect mannerisms.

“It’s certainly possible.”

“With a name like Vívó for a fencing school, I doubt I’m wrong.”

“Most people mistake it for Spanish,” Elizabeta says dryly.

“That’s to their loss.” Roderich pauses, his face suggesting recollection at work. “I did a short stint with the Failoni Chamber Orchestra for a run of The Barber of Seville. I wasn’t in Budapest long, but I enjoyed my time there very much.”

“I wasn’t even a teenager when we left, but…yes.” An old, familiar melancholy in Elizabeta’s heart makes itself known. “It’s still home to me.”

There’s a weighty silence that is mercifully cut short by the sight of their destination. Part instrument shop, part repair place, part music school, Golden Fields Music Conservatory has been a fixture of W City going on a decade. Elizabeta thinks briefly of going inside to talk to Yekaterina, but knows the Ukrainian woman doesn’t typically work this time of day.

“Well, here it is.” Elizabeta smiles slightly, though it comes with a little effort.

“Thank you for your help,” Roderich says, but his face is very grave. “Miss Héderváry, if I caused you to feel undue discomfort in my ignorance-”

“Elizabeta, please. I’m not really a ‘Miss Héderváry’ type. Besides, if you’ll be coming here often that’ll make us neighbors,” Elizabeta cuts him off gently. “And there was no discomfort, I promise. A little nostalgia for home is a perfectly natural thing.”

“That’s certainly true,” Roderich says, and there’s something in his voice that speaks of knowing well the feeling of homesickness. “Would you care to come in for coffee or tea if you aren’t in a hurry?”

The offer isn’t unexpected, not from someone with Roderich Edelstein’s well mannered disposition, but little butterflies flutter up in Elizabeta’s stomach like they’re just as surprised by their presence as she is.

“I am, unfortunately. But if I could make good upon that offer when I’m not, that would make me very happy,” Elizabeta says, and this time the smile comes easily.

“Of course,” Roderich says, his own mouth actually turning up a little at the corners. That causes the butterflies to jump around with growing enthusiasm, but Elizabeta really does have to go. W City’s resident information broker-a very calm, glasses wearing Asian gentleman who owns the illustrious Jinghai Teahouse and the somewhat less illustrious White Lotus gambling parlor-had tipped her off to an upcoming bank robbery by Golden Horde. If she-if Turul wishes to still make it in time to nip things in the bud, she has to leave now.

Feeling more than a bit despondent at this latest sacrifice of her social life, Elizabeta steps back to take her leave when Roderich coughs awkwardly.

“May I impose on you one last time before you go?” Roderich flushes faintly, seemingly waiting for her prompting to continue.

“Yes?”

“If you could address me by my first name as well, I would…enjoy that very much.”

Elizabeta blinks a few times to take that in. When she does she wouldn’t have stopped the smile that spreads over her face for anything in the world.

“Of course. Have a good afternoon, Roderich,” Elizabeta gives a wave as she reluctantly walks off. “I’ll see you later.”

“I’m looking forward to it, Elizabeta. Take care.”

It’s probably not terribly cool or heroic of her, but if Elizabeta does a little skip on the way to her car once Roderich is safely inside, it’s no one’s business but her own.

* * *

Sorry for the lack of actual superheroics in this update, everyone. The next one actually will, though! In the meantime please have fun playing my favorite Hetalia Human AU game, _Guess-The-Nation_.

Vívó-Hungarian for “fencer”.

Plastron- “Underarm Protector. A partial garment worn under the jacket for  
padding or for safety. Usually consists of a sleeve and a chest/abdomen covering, which provides additional padding and protection”-wikipedia.

Jabot-What Austria’s necktie thing you always see him wearing is actually called.

Liszt, Erkel, and Brahms-Respectively, two famous Hungarian composers and a German who composed some very well known music inspired by Hungarian folk dances.

Jinghai- “Mirror Sea”. Also known as the original name of a certain Chinese territory that spent time as a Portuguese colony.


	3. Chapter 3

Elizabeta manages to make good on her word three days later. Not that she’s counting or anything. When she walks up Romanoff Street and sees Roderich sitting in front of a beautiful Blüthner piano before Golden Fields' elegant front window, she smiles and bounds into the music center with a ready greeting on her lips.   
  
The second Elizabeta hears the notes rolling through the air, she finds herself unable to speak.   
  
When she first encountered Roderich, Elizabeta’s initial impression amounted to ‘ _a little bit of a priss, but still a nice (and handsome) gentleman_ ’. She still doesn’t think it’s totally inaccurate. But hearing such music, obvious even to her untrained ear that of someone who puts all of oneself into every note…  
  
It’s strangely thrilling to realize Roderich has such intensity rolling below the surface, and Elizabeta tucks the thought away for examination later. But now she merely remains silent, soaking in the pure beauty of his music like parched soil takes in rain. When Roderich finally lifts his hands from the keys to let silence reign, Elizabeta emerges from her reverie as if from a dream.   
  
“That was…amazing,” Elizabeta says, even though she doesn’t fully trust herself to speak and mere words don’t seem enough. “Even someone who hasn’t made a study of music like me can say that.”  
  
“To say such a thing is doing you a disservice,” Roderich replies, lightly trailing his fingers across the keys before pulling the fall board carefully over them. “I’ve personally always felt important as an educated ear is, what matters most is someone who knows how to truly listen.”  
  
“Really?” Elizabeta says, not hiding the teasing lilt in her words.  
  
“I’m not  _that_  much of a snob,” Roderich says, both defensively and with a touch of wryness at the same time. “Trust me, I have more than one cousin who will happily dispense…er…encouragement towards a serious self examination should that come to be the case.”  
  
“Like…um….” Elizabeta combs through her memories, “Gilbert?”  
  
“I’m sure he dreams of the day,” Roderich says, utterly dry, and Elizabeta doesn’t even try to contain her laugh. “But definitely not.”  
  
“After those directions he doesn’t have the right to talk down to anyone. I hope you really let him have it for that,” Elizabeta says. Roderich doesn’t answer in words, but his mouth curls up oh-so-slightly at the corner and it is response enough. Scanning their settings, a question rises up she now feels a little more at liberty to ask.  
  
“So, what is it you’re doing here at Golden Fields? I’d expect the orchestra to be taking up your time.”  
  
“Piano, mainly.” Roderich shrugs and somehow manages to make it look genteel in the process. “I play every day at home, but repetition can dull skills. There’s enough variation of what’s needed at Golden Fields to keep me sharp when I’m devoting so much of my professional time to the violin.” He gestures to the Blüthner, a gleaming proud empress with her sleek and magnificent lines. “This was sent in for some refurbishing work. I was actually testing the tuning out.”  
  
“Calling your playing testing? Now,  _that_  is a disservice,” Elizabeta says, and she really means it for how light her tone is. “Which piece was it?”  
  
“ _Clair de Lune_ , by-”  
  
Elizabeta holds up a hand, halting him midsentence.  
  
“By, let’s see…” She does know this one at least, it’s famous. “Um…Ravel-no, Debussy.”  
  
“Correct,” Roderich says with the slight smile she’s growing fond of. “Inspired by the Verlaine poem of the same name.”  
  
“I wish I could have stopped in earlier. I only got to hear the last minute or so.”  
  
Roderich goes quiet about the same time his cheeks get a touch redder. Elizabeta wonders at the reaction for a mere second before he coughs, abruptly and more than a little flustered.  
  
“I…could play something more, if you would like. Some Liszt, perhaps? I do  _Années de pèlerinage_  quite well. Or…” Roderich’s voice trails off.  
  
“I would love to hear your Liszt,” Elizabeta says softly, carefully. She has excellent instincts-it’s part and parcel with her line of work-but something deeper and older than that is telling her what’s happening now is… _important_. And for better or worse, it hinges all on what she’ll say to him. “But now…”  
  
Elizabeta sucks in a small breath, wondering if she is being too bold. But sometimes, taking a chance is simply worth the risk.  
  
“Please, you choose. Surprise me.”  
  
Green eyes lock with violet ones for a long, long moment. Then Roderich gestures to a nearby chair.  
  
“If you’ll sit, then.”  
  
As Elizabeta does so, Roderich lifts up the fall board to push it seamlessly back into the body of the piano. Even from her seat she can detect something like nervous tension, but his hands are rock steady and calm.   
  
The notes wind through the air, soft and gentle. It’s lulling in a way, yet here and there-bolder notes making their presence known. Back and forth, while somehow evoking harmony despite being such distinctive elements. Together they wind in a grand crescendo, combining into something thrilling and grand, before winding back down into rich, sweeter melody. Elizabeta is no musician, but to her ears it feels like dancing, perhaps. No, not quite, but she can’t put her finger on just the word she is looking for…  
  
The song ends before Elizabeta has time to think about it any longer. Normally she would clap or something similar, but as utterly wonderful as his playing had been, it just doesn’t feel right for the moment.  
  
“Which piece was that?” Elizabeta says softly, reluctant to break the strange and beautiful atmosphere in the room. But she really wants to know-she wants to listen again.   
  
“Rachmaninoff,  _Four Pieces_ *. This was just the first one, though. Listening to all of them truly completes the experience. Idil Biret does an excellent recording in particular.”   
  
Elizabeta shakes her head, sighing softly. “I’m sure it is, but I think that just can’t work for me anymore.” She smiles at Roderich, who is looking at her with a rather adorably quizzical expression. “After hearing your version, I don’t think anyone else’s could capture the mood of the piece of me as well. I really can’t find words enough to say how wonderful it was, but thank you so much for playing it.”  
  
“Any time you wish I will be glad to play for you.” Roderich pauses, looking as if he is mustering the right words. “Elizabeta-”  
  
_*Bi-bi-bi-biiiiiiiiiip! Bi-bi-bi-biiiiiiiiiip! Bi-bi-bi-biiiiiiiiiip!*_  
  
“Sorry, let me check this in case it’s important.” Elizabeta manages a strained smile, because the only other alternatives left to her are either a scream of frustration or throwing her cell phone through the etched glass pane of the music studio. Pulling out her phone only adds to her growing aggravation.  
  
**> >Eliza, need help big electro event @ Parker Center**  
  
Robots. Elizabeta  _really_  hates dealing with robots. But at least it’s free rein to vent her pent up frustration. And if Yekaterina is straight up asking for help, she probably really needs the backup.  
  
**Time and numbers? Anyone else free Katya? <<**  
  
**> >300ish, rn. I’m sorry, no one’s available. ;A;**  
  
Elizabeta sighs, and texts back.  
  
**Okay, be there fast as I can. <<**  
  
“I’m sorry, my friend is in a bit of a crisis right now,” Elizabeta says. “Um…what days are you usually here? I’d like to drop by again.”  
  
“Monday through Wednesday, in the afternoon,” Roderich replies. “I hope your friend is alright.”  
  
“Just going through a little rough patch,” Elizabeta says as she takes her leave. “I’ll see you later, Roderich. Thank you again for playing for me.”  
  
There’s a nearby isolated alley, something in plentiful supply in W City. Elizabeta ducks into it and after a minute of blinding lights, localized windstorms, and hawk feathers Turul emerges battle ready. Three steps later she shoots off into the sky and soars towards Parker Center. 

* * *

 

Turul moves across the pavement with such speed and grace it’s more akin to gliding than running. Sword at hand, she slices through three robots in quick succession before bounding onto a fourth with such force it crunches under her feet. Springboarding off crumpled steel, the superheroine uses her momentum to flip on top of a light pole. Raising her blade, Turul concentrates on channeling her energy through the weapon.   
  
Förgeteg carries upon it blessings of the sky and air. Of Turul’s gifts, it is the most formidable. At its fullest power, it is capable of creating a colossal pillar of wind touching the sky. Here such force is not needed, but a single downward slice is enough to send dozens of robots through gale force winds. Everywhere bits of metal and sparking machinery are scattered like some post-apocalyptic vision.  
  
Not quite, though. There’s greenery amidst the machinery, vines crisscrossing the street and trees sprouting up through cracks in the sidewalk. Further down a pile of robot bodies have become a bed for some beautiful hollyhocks. Like the earth goddess she honors the name of, Mokosh* dances in battle and destroys artificial life with organic, richly decorated costume rippling like wheat fields with her motions.   
  
“Mokosh! How much more, do you think?” Turul calls down as Mokosh creates a massive wall of ivy, tangling a further few dozen robots within. As they struggle the plants claim their bodies as territory, mechanic surrender signaled by sparks and the shorting out of lights.   
  
“Hmm…fifty or sixty?”  
  
Turul resists the urge to groan and instead settles for lightly resting her hand against her forehead. She  _really_  hates fighting robots. Not because it’s hard, or particularly strenuous. It’s because fighting robots is  _incredibly_ , immeasurably boring. In general a robot has only so many given reactions to any move, and once you’ve figured out their tells fighting one is the same as fighting any of them. The only way they really can pose any challenge is just by sheer numbers. It’s a little like being an insect exterminator, but without the great pay.  
  
“Alright, let’s smash up the lot!” Turul leaps off the light pole and straight up charges. Without mercy she cuts through the robots in her path, sending parts flying off in every direction. To anyone who happens to see, it’s a strange combination of fearsome and beautiful. Between the two superheroines, the remaining amount of robots quickly dwindles to-  
  
“Laus deoooooooo!!!”  
  
-tennnwhat the  _hell_.  
  
The superhero-because only superheroes are  _that_  unselfconsciously willing to yell catchphrases-jumps down from a nearby ledge in a way clearly designed to make his black and white robes flutter dramatically. It doesn’t really distract from the fact he was obviously waiting to make an entrance, but Turul can’t dwell on it too long. Not when this newcomer is waving around a broadsword (bigger and longer than her own, how like a man) glowing with a holy light that slices through the few robots remaining like butter and leaves melted steel in its wake. There’s a fierce joy in his expression, clear even behind his domino mask, and he grins like a shark when he bisects a robot cleanly from top to bottom. The final one attempts to catch him off guard from behind, but this one doesn’t even earn the dignity of a sword slice. Without looking, one pale hand grips the robot’s head. Glowing with the same pure, white light as the sword, it takes but a second for the robot to fry from the inside out. Its remains make a hollow little clatter as they hit the ground, but the white-haired superhero doesn’t spare a glance for it.  
  
“Just sit back, ladies. The awesome Crusade will handle it from here!”  
  
“Ah…those were the last of them,” Mokosh politely says. This response is obviously not planned for, but Crusade’s triumphant expression wavers for just a few seconds before he recovers.   
  
“Good! Then you’re finally out of danger-”  
  
“We managed the first three hundred without any trouble,” Turul cuts him off, starting to get annoyed. And why does she want her frying pan so badly now? “You must be new in town.”  
  
This seems even less according to plan than the previous reply. Turul can practically see the needle of his thoughts skipping on the record of his pre-chosen dialogue.   
  
“Turul’s right, but it was very considerate of you to get the last bit,” Mokosh says, evidently feeling a little sorry for him, and blissfully unaware of the salt-in-the-wound effect this consolation has.   
  
“Haaaaa, that’s great you were totally fine and didn’t need any help! I didn’t really feel like wasting the Lord’s power on mere robots anyway!” Crusade laughs in a very stilted way. “Go with God-next time I’ll just handle things!”  
  
Crusade jumps up to the nearest rooftop, hopping away until he’s a mere speck in the distance. In silence, the two superheroines watch his figure shrink.  
  
“Weirdo.”  
  
“I’m sure he means well.”  
  
“You say that about  _everyone_ , Mokosh. Anyway, if we’re done here I’m going to head off. See you at the usual spot tomorrow?”  
  
“Of course. I’ll see you then!”  
  
Turul soars off into the sky at the same time Mokosh disappears in a gentle swirl of flower petals. As she makes her way back home, she wonders if they should start a bet on how long the new guy would last in W City. It’s not a great spot for paladin heroes-she gives Crusade a month tops.   
  
The superheroine touches down in yet another convenient alley, made all the more so for its proximity to a record store. Even as Turul dissolves away and Elizabeta returns she smiles, and thinks of an evening spent listening to Rachmaninoff. 

* * *

Sorry for how long this took! Writing out music appreciation scenes is hard when you have no ear for it yourself. Next update should come a bit faster, and bring us closer to the present. I hope. Thanks for reading!  
  
Keen readers (or anyone who takes a second to look this up on Wikipedia) will realize Roderich is specifically playing the  _Romance_  portion of Rachmaninoff’s _Four Pieces_. Sadly Elizabeta doesn’t know that quite yet, but we will give him Smoothness Points none the less. Much thanks to a certain wonderful lady famous in this fandom for her quality smut, who gave me some very valuable advice vis Rachmaninoff. Look up the piece on youtube, it really is quite lovely!  
  
Förgeteg-Hungarian for “whirlwind” at least according to that ever-accurate source Google Translate. Any similarities to a certain Saber’s sword are purely in the spirit of homage. (◡‿◡✿)  
  
Mokosh-Quoth wiki, “protector of women's work and women's destiny.[1]She watches over spinning and weaving, shearing of sheep, and protects women in child birth. Mokosh is the handmaiden of Mat Zemlya. Mokoš was the only female deity whose idol was erected by Vladimir the Great in his Kiev sanctuary along with statues of other major gods”. Say hi to super nature powers Ukraine, kids! Her costume is basically a more dramatic and artsy spin on her folk dress outfit. (With the requisite super domino mask)  
  
Laus deo-Latin for “Praise be to God” (or in this case “Praise be to Godddddddddddddddd!!!”) Say hi to Prussia and his Teutonic knights white robes getup! It's going to be  _fun_  here. Hehehehe...


	4. Chapter 4

Elizabeta has a wonderful time at Antigua, the classic Italian trattoria Feliciano’s grandfather Romulus owns. More handsome than any man past sixty has a right to be, Romulus kisses Elizabeta’s cheeks like the old family friend he is. As promised Elizabeta feasts on courses of fresh, bright bruschetta and exquisitely savory  _tagliatelle alla Bolognese_  cooked with tomatoes grown on the Vargas farm and hand-made, silky smooth pasta, all paired with sinfully luscious Italian Merlot. During dinner Feliciano’s grandfather regales Elizabeta and Feliciano with stories of the youthful adventures he and her father had shared, having known each other long before either were born. Elizabeta’s heard them all many times before, but somehow Romulus manages to keep the tales of all her father had gotten up to back in the day as fresh as the first telling.   
  
Though Elizabeta thinks she cannot possibly manage another bite of food when all is said and done, the arrival of a tiramisu brimming with sweet mascarpone and wafting decadent scents of chocolate and amaretto shows this to be false. Romulus tells the two of them he convinced Feliciano’s grandmother to marry him by virtue of his tiramisu, and considering each bite tastes like it’s been blessed by angels Elizabeta believes him. When Elizabeta finally manages the strength to stand and tear herself away, both Feliciano and Romulus see her out the door, all the while insisting ‘ _bella, you must come back more often, you work too hard, we need to know you’re getting a good meal_ ’. Laughing, Elizabeta swears to be better about visiting, and thanks the Vargas family sincerely for a splendid dinner spent with much loved company.  
  
The whole way home Elizabeta’s smile rests firmly on her face. It had been a truly wonderful night, after all. Had she known exactly what the coming week held in store for her, having that small bit of respite would have made her appreciation even greater. 

* * *

The next morning Elizabeta wakes up to find her hair a frazzled mess. That should have been her first clue to be on her guard, but sleepiness and then the urgent need for plenty of hair care products get the bulk of her attention. Even after assault by hairspray and leave in conditioners her hair refuses to be tamed, and with an annoyed grumble Elizabeta pulls it into a tight bun.   
  
Traffic lights are out and the streets jam packed on the route Elizabeta usually takes to Vívó. The radio mentions a fight between Matador and Istanbull as the cause, and even the news the latter has been carted off to jail does nothing to alleviate the growing twitch gracing her eyebrow. By the time she gets to her studio Elizabeta is twenty minutes late, and when she tries to unlock the door her key snaps in half.  
  
Ten deep, therapeutic breaths later, Elizabeta  _just_  manages not to scream in anger, and instead dial a locksmith with fingers only slightly shaking in frustration. Everyone has bad days, and she’s no exception. The main thing is to keep calm, and it’ll pass.  
  
Right?  
  
The next few days prove the foolishness of such optimism. Monday sees Turul in action against some disgusting muck monster, whose easy defeat nonetheless results Elizabeta reeking of its stench so badly she has to miss seeing Roderich  _and_  cancel her Tuesday class while washing so frequently her skin practically peels in her attempts to get the smell off.  
  
Come Wednesday it does, but mid-class session all the fire sprinklers decide to go off at once. Students end up soaked and the studio half-flooded before the plumber manages to show up and fix things, Elizabeta is too busy cleaning up and trying not to give herself a stress induced aneurysm she misses Roderich _again_.  
  
By Thursday, a stuntwoman film job she’s taken on gets held up when no one can locate the lead actress for five hours. When the woman finally stumbles in hung over and smelling like a bar or ten, Elizabeta is seriously starting to suspect someone cursed her. This feeling only deepens once a falling stage light nearly hits her in the head, an accident her super reflexes mercifully help her dodge. But the usual culprit for such things has supposedly been on the ‘hero’ bandwagon for the past few months, and Elizabeta doesn’t want to give the bastard the satisfaction of knowing she’s been having a bad week if he doesn’t actually have anything to do with it.   
  
Friday rolls around, and swiftly works to add to Elizabeta’s bad week by having Vívó’s website become the victim of a malware attack. It takes several hours with tech support before things are fixed, and then she spends the rest of her night re uploading all her photos. Contacting the local witch/record shop owner and learning she is not actually cursed somehow only worsens her mood. At least curses can be  _undone_.  
  
“But Ervá-”   
  
“Not cursed.” Elizabeta hears the shuffling noise of materials being moved around in the background, the clinking of stones and what sounds like tree branches scraping against each other. “I’ve checked the normal sources  _and_  a good chunk of the not-normal ones. Which I’m charging you extra for, by the way. Long story short, you’re just unlucky.”  
  
Ignoring the sound of Elizabeta’s teeth grinding, she idly continues, “I also remembered, the CDs you ordered arrived. The Rachmaninoff set? Come by any time to pick them up. You can settle your tab then.”  
  
“Sure,” Elizabeta says tiredly, drained now that she doesn’t have a target to aim her anger at. She can’t even get that worked up about Ervá being her usual indifferent self, although that would be about as pointless as getting angry at the sky for being blue.“I’ll be there in the next few days.”  
  
Hanging up the phone, Elizabeta glances at her wall calendar and feels a tremor of unheroic apprehension. Saturday’s due, and after the battering her psyche has already been subject to, she’s not sure she’s up to facing it.

* * *

Saturday dawns, bright if somewhat overcast. Elizabeta stares suspiciously out the window, at the sky and the sparrow hopping to and fro on her apartment’s balcony. Surprisingly, given her week, fire does not shoot down nor does the sparrow go Hitchcock on her and attempt to peck her eyes out.   
It’s a small yet promising start.  
  
Class goes well enough. On Saturdays Elizabeta usually has her youth sessions, which can easily escalate into the stuff of nightmares if one is foolish enough to be inattentive. But aside from Peter’s usual antics of an exaggerated pirate accent and proclaiming himself ‘Lord of All The Seven Seas!’, and Winona grumbling about how he drags her along week after week (never mind that Elizabeta can tell the girl quite enjoys said sessions), things proceed smoothly. It’s still too early for her guard to drop, but for the first time all week Elizabeta entertains a faint, wavering glimmer of hope.   
  
The sky has gone from overcast to threatening rain by the time Elizabeta locks up Vívó for the night. Really, she probably shouldn’t have stayed as late as she had, but considering her studio still smelled faintly of mildew from Wednesday’s sprinkler debacle her course was set. At least Elizabeta’s hard work results in absolutely no mold and strong wafts of lemon-scented cleaning solution. There’s something to be said for a space so sparklingly spotless strong sunlight could blind you in it.   
  
Fat drops of water start falling with a vengeance as Elizabeta runs to her car. In the time it takes her to fumble for her keys and unlock the door her hair and back get drenched. Scrambling for the safely dry interior of her car, Elizabeta shuts the door quickly and reclines into the driver’s seat.   
  
Alright then. Faint wetness aside, this day had gone  _not disastrously_. This is good. Now, to make it back to her apartment without anything horrible happening. The rain is coming down harder than ever, and she’s grateful the streets are empty of cars for how wet they are. Stirring herself to action with thoughts of a bottle of Almapálinka* and nice, brainless action movie waiting for her at home, Elizabeta turns on the ignition and pulls out of her spot.   
  
Elizabeta makes it the two blocks to Romanoff Street before her engine shudders hard enough to make the whole car vibrate. Even as she quickly pulls off to the side and parks its making death rattle noises, and jumping out and popping the hood merely releases a cloud of smoke visible even through the heavy rainfall.   
  
Defeated, Elizabeta stands and stares at her car. Some small part of her brain notes she’s getting waterlogged from the rain and should probably go and call a tow truck. But it’s like the weight of this whole week has crashed down on her all at once. She’s had greater lows than this, more painful ones. This rationalization feels weak though, when wretchedness has her in an iron grip. Elizabeta’s shivering hard now, and her skin feels icy cold. Against everything else, it seems so far away.  
  
Numb and wet as she is, it takes a second for Elizabeta to realize the rain has stopped hitting her. Turning around, Roderich’s concerned face is the first thing she sees under the umbrella that covers them both.   
  
“Elizabeta, are you alright? How long have you been standing out here?”   
  
“I don’t know,” Elizabeta says, swallowing past the lump in her throat. “My car, it stalled all of the sudden, and…”  
  
“Come inside,” Roderich gently takes her hand, the wonderful heat of his fingers sinking against the chill. “You can warm up and I’ll call a mechanic for you. I know the best one in the city.”  
  
Elizabeta doesn’t cry, though it’s a close run, or throw her arms around him. Instead, she manages a single wavering nod and lets Roderich lead her inside Golden Fields. 

* * *

It’s not until she’s inside the pleasant warmth of Golden Fields and her coat is peeled off that Elizabeta becomes aware of just how cold she is. Even with her strong resistance to extreme temperatures she can see why Roderich looked so worried-her skin is too cool for a normal person to be comfortable, although thankfully not in the dangerously low range. That would have taken some explaining she doesn’t feel up to. 

  
Settling into one of the cushioned armchairs in Golden Fields' front showroom, Elizabeta wrings out her hair as best she can into the small towel Roderich had managed to find. Task done, Elizabeta slumps fully into the chair and shuts her eyes. Just a little ways down she can hear the murmur of Roderich on the phone in Golden Fields' break room, a choice Elizabeta suspects was done out of consideration for her given there’s a phone right at the receptionist’s desk. Grateful for a chance to compose herself as she warms up again, Elizabeta grows so drowsy she nearly nods off.   
  
The sound of approaching footsteps jolts her back to reality, aided greatly by amazing smelling coffee. Opening her eyes, Roderich’s back faces her as he fiddles with a tray he’s balanced on the reception desk.  
  
“I placed a call to Old Fritz’s Auto Body. With this weather they’re fairly busy, so the closest time estimate they could give me was at least thirty minutes.”  
  
“That’s fine,” Elizabeta says softly. “Thank you so much for everything. I…it’s been a rough week.”  
  
“It saddens me to hear that,” Roderich says, bringing over two steaming cups and plates laden with something she can’t see sitting down. “It’s paltry perhaps, but I hope some refreshment will lift your spirits.” The dark haired man sets everything down on the small side table, and Elizabeta’s heart literally skips when she realizes what he’s brought over.  
  
“ _Dobostorta_?” Elizabeta murmurs reverently, because some things are sacred and that includes the best pastry in the world. “Where on earth did you get it? Even Ladoga Bakery doesn’t make it.”  
  
“I baked it,” Roderich says, and the look on his face is halfway between confused and flattered at Elizabeta’s clear adulation. “With some black coffee as an accompaniment. I thought it would help warm you up.”  
  
Indeed, the warmth coming off the cup feels splendid, and the steaming wafts of a deep, dark roast nothing short of heavenly. Nonetheless, all things pale before the glory of Dobostorta, and as Roderich passes her slice over Elizabeta neatly spears a piece of cake onto her fork with eager fingers.   
  
Chocolate buttercream, smoothly luscious and decadent, waltzes together with spongecake to notes of sweet caramel. Elizabeta couldn’t stop herself from taking another bite for the world, but this is an experience to be  _savored_. Rushing would be an unthinkable disservice to a dessert that had been the pride of an empire. Each layer of the Dobostorta is flawlessly balanced, contrasting the softness of the chocolate with the airy crumbs of the cake, crunches of hard caramel topping flash up here and there like fireworks. Between sips of a spectacular black coffee Elizabeta delights in a dream of a cake so perfectly light yet rich it is fit for an emperor.   
  
It’s only when the last precious bite disappears that Elizabeta emerges from her haze to see Roderich looking at her with a gentlemanly sort of bemusement. Try as she might, there’s no stopping the flush she can  _feel_  burning its way merrily across her face.  
  
“Um…it was really, really delicious,” Elizabeta says weakly. “Thank you.”  
  
“It’s very gratifying to see what I made enjoyed so wholeheartedly,” Roderich says. “Please, don’t feel embarrassed. It is the highest compliment any chef can get.”  
  
“I haven’t had Dobostorta- _good_  Dobostorta-since I left Hungary.” Elizabeta sets her plate aside and curls her fingers around the still-warm coffee cup. “I can’t tell you how much better it made me feel. If I hadn’t heard your music playing, I say you were missing your calling.”

“That’s kind of you to say,” Roderich sighs and his mouth twitches like he’s torn between smiling and not. “Such encouragement would have saved me a lot of grief growing up.”  
  
“Oh?” Elizabeta asks, inwardly wondering how to ask if there’s more Dobostorta without seeming like a glutton.  
  
“My family has lived in Vienna for a long time, but most of my relatives are from Germany. All boys and very…” Roderich pauses like he’s trying to find the right word, “Physically oriented.”  
  
“Couldn’t move for machismo?” Elizabeta guesses, and is warmed by Roderich’s short laugh.  
  
“Something like that.” Pulling off his glasses in one hand, Roderich wipes at them with a small cloth before settling them back on his nose. “Perhaps if my creative impulses had manifested themselves in a more traditionally masculine way I would have been a less tempting target, but…” He shrugs. “I preferred art to the auto yard, and there was no changing it. I suppose the determination I got from my younger years has served me to good purpose later in life, so it wasn’t for nothing. And I was fortunate enough to have my mother’s support. She is a very passionate believer in the fine arts.”  
  
“For what it’s worth, the man who preferred music was the one who helped me when I really needed it,” Elizabeta says with a small smile, and gladly receives his hesitant one in turn. “I’m glad you didn’t have to go at things alone. I can’t say I ever went through something similar. I was such a tomboy growing up-my mother died when I was just a baby. Father raised me how he felt best, and well, traditional gender roles never held much sway with him. I’m positive no one in my neighborhood growing up even knew I was a girl until I hit my teens.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Roderich says, a little awkwardly as Elizabeta looks at him in confusion. “About your mother, I mean.”  
  
“It’s not as if you were aware,” Elizabeta says. “And I didn’t ever really know her. It’s sad, but you can’t really miss someone you never had any experience with. Between my father and my aunt I wasn’t deprived of adults in my life. He was the one who taught me how to fence.”  
  
“If he was anywhere as good as you, your father must have been quite skilled.”  
  
“Skilled is an understatement. Father was  _incredible_. He won a silver medal for Hungary at the ‘88 Olympics in Seoul,” Elizabeta says proudly. “I still have his medal at home.” Roderich’s appropriately impressed expression is rather gratifying, and she soaks it in for a second.  
  
“Have you done much competing yourself?” Roderich asks, inadvertently steering the conversation into somewhat trickier waters.  
  
“Here and there, but I had a lot going on as a teen,” Elizabeta says, not mentioning the part about fighting the forces of evil instead of practicing with fencers she vastly outperformed physically. Seeking a change in topic, she continues, “You know, it was a lucky thing you were here. I thought Golden Fields closed early on the weekends.”  
  
“It does, but I left my wallet and went back to retrieve it.” Roderich gives another of his slight smiles. “I suppose we can think of it as meant to be.”  
  
This leads into a soft, cozy silence that passes into minutes before Roderich stands up and gathers the plates and cups.  
  
“Your tow truck will likely be arriving soon. Would you care for any more refreshment in the meantime?”  
  
“Oh yes!” Elizabeta says quickly, blushing slightly at how much enthusiasm had crept into her voice. “More Dobostorta would be lovely if you have it, and a little more coffee.”  
  
Upon his return, Elizabeta happily accepts the cake and coffee. She’ll need to work out extra hard the next class or crime she ends up at, but there’s no doubt it is well worth it.  
  
“Thank you so much.” It isn’t until she’s a few bites into her heavenly dessert Elizabeta realizes she’s the only one eating. “You aren’t having any more?”  
  
“Ah, I had dinner just a little while ago so I’m well sated.”  
  
“I guess I feel like poor company, just eating while you’re sitting there.”  
  
“That is the last thing you are, I promise.” Roderich pauses and glances to where the pianos are arranged to the side of the armchairs. “Perhaps I could play something for you?”  
  
The thought of listening to Roderich’s wonderful playing while enjoying his food is indeed an appealing one. But he’s gone above and beyond the call of host, and her conscience won’t allow her to impose on him carelessly.  
  
“I’d be happy to hear your playing, if it’s really not a bother. I’ve already been quite greedy with your hospitality.”  
  
“I swear it isn’t, the playing or you overextending your welcome,” Roderich says, and he looks so very  _serious_  about this insistence. Elizabeta hopes she hasn’t inadvertently slighted him. “I meant it when I said I would gladly play for you any time.”  
  
Once more, the ever increasingly familiar flutter in her stomach. Resisting the urge to slap her cheeks for apparently regressing to her teen years, Elizabeta instead smiles hopefully at Roderich. “Your Liszt, then? I’ve been looking forward to the chance to hear it.”  
  
“Liszt…always an excellent choice.” Seating himself at the piano bench of an stately Steinway, Roderich flexes his fingers before striding right into the opening chords of  _Liebesträume_ , the first one. There’s something indescribably lovely about the gentle notes rippling through the air, against the drumming tempo of the rain outside. What had been a bane outdoors transformed the atmosphere within, a small world of music and comforts. Her cake fully eaten, Elizabeta reclines in her armchair and lets her tension drift away.   
  
A brief lull, and then Roderich starts playing the second  _Liebesträume_. Between the soft light of Golden Fields and the softer music Elizabeta’s in danger of falling asleep. It’s been a long time since she’s been so at ease, she realizes, and such is her relaxed state she merely notes the thought instead of being depressed by it. Times like these should be treasured, they’re so rare for those who follow the super lifestyle. When had she last taken a moment for herself? Elizabeta can’t even recall.  
  
Without missing a beat Roderich smoothly transitions into the third  _Liebesträume_. Of the three Elizabeta knows it’s the most famous and instantly recognizable. She’s heard it many times before, but there’s some indefinable element about Roderich’s rendition of Liszt’s masterpiece. It’s still a piece everyone knows, but this is just for  _her_. Even the wonderful coffee doesn’t warm her like that thought does, and Elizabeta tucks the feeling away to be looked at later. For now, she just lets the music flow through her, lifting her up in a way she never could have imagined just an hour earlier. When the final note rings out, there’s a flare of loss that Elizabeta’s not surprised by.   
  
“That was splendid,” Elizabeta says. “Thank you. For everything, really-you brought my evening from hell to heaven.”  
  
“I’m happy to have been of service,” Roderich says, standing up from the bench. “Elizabeta…if I may-”  
  
A sudden knocking on the door, the beats perfectly regular and timed, cuts him off. Both Elizabeta and Roderich look to the glass front door of Golden Fields, where a tall figure is clearly visible even through the heavy rain.  
  
“…And that would be your tow truck,” Roderich sighs. “Excuse me while I let him in.”  
  
‘Him’ turns out to be Ludwig Beilschmidt, whose super buff, blonde German-ness in no way hides the fact that he’s sweetly awkward and sets Elizabeta’s gaydar pinging loudly enough to be heard from Mars. But those are things to be considered later, and for now she’s set on getting her car in working order again.  
  
“I’ll have to take it back to the garage. In this weather I couldn’t even make a cursory start,” Ludwig says following a military-crisp handshake. “I can drop you off on the way back.”  
  
“Anything you think you need to do,” Elizabeta says, and prays that the repairs won’t venture into the bank-breaking level automotive work can achieve.   
  
While Ludwig hooks up her car to his tow truck outside, Elizabeta waits by the door. Roderich had taken his leave to drop the plates and cups off in the staff break room so they could be washed, but he has been gone long enough she can’t help but wonder if he got himself lost again.  
  
A throat clears lightly behind her, and Elizabeta turns to see Roderich with an umbrella in hand.  
  
“I hope I’m not presuming,” Roderich hands it to her, smiling just a little.  
  
“Not at all. I really can’t thank you enough for everything,” Elizabeta says. “I just wish I could do something for you in turn.”  
  
“I assure you, there’s no call for such a thing. I was glad to be able to help you.” Roderich hesitates, and the look on his face speaks of steeling himself. “If I could ask a question of you, that would be more than enough for me.”  
  
“Of course,” Elizabeta says, trying not to entertain any untowardly wild fantasies about where all this is headed.   
  
“Would you be available to go to dinner any time in the future?” Roderich looks a little flushed, but his eyes are steady where they meet hers.  
  
“L-like a date?” Elizabeta asks, just to be sure they’re clear on that front.  
  
“Exactly so.” Roderich’s flush is starting to intensify, but so is Elizabeta’s.   
  
“Yes!” Elizabeta gets it out as quickly as possible, before he opens his mouth to apologize, or worse yet take it back. “Yes. I would love to go out with you.”  
  
“Ah. Good,” Roderich manages to get out, like he’s surprised she said yes, but there’s an underlying layer of delight that takes away the stiffness. “I, er, don’t have your number yet-”  
  
In a flash Elizabeta takes out one of the business cards she always keeps in her purse, and a pen. Scribbling out her personal number on the back, she passes it to Roderich.  
  
“I’ll need yours too,” Elizabeta smiles, and some of the embarrassment they’re sharing dissipates. Making use of the notepad, Roderich’s digits are soon in a safe spot in her bag to be added to her cell as soon as she gets a chance.   
  
“I’m not sure when I’m free next, but I’ll call you or drop by Golden Fields.” Truth be told, clearing out her schedule is not an easy task, but it’s one Elizabeta is willing to go through this time. “You’re still here on your normal days, right?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Sadly, Ludwig’s reentrance and announcement her car is now hooked up cuts off any possibility of further conversation. Elizabeta instead settles for expressing her gratitude once more, gently squeezing Roderich’s hands in her own before dashing outside with a heart no amount of rain could dampen. 

* * *

Urgh…I’m sorry this took so long. If it’s any consolation, taking twice as long to write this also result in a piece that’s twice as long as my average update?  
  
I’d like to give my thanks to a kind anon who did an  _amazing_  Turul fanart. You can see it linked [here](http://i.imgur.com/5EIUPkE.png) so check it out and praise them lots! Thank you again, I absolutely love it. :D  
  
Notes and Other Natterings:  
  
-The magic using bastard culprit in question should be obvious given this is Hungary we are talking about.   
  
-Almapálinka is a variety of pálinka, Hungarian fruit brandy, this one being specifically an apple variant.   
  
-I have zero apologies for  _Old Fritz’s Auto Body_. Some things just  _feel_  right. No bonus points for guess who also works there. :D  
  
-Dobostorta, or Dobos Torte is a famous Hungarian pastry created by József C. Dobos. An elegant pastry of (traditionally) five-layers of spongecake and chocolate buttercream and topped with another layer of hard caramel, it was introduced at the National General Exhibition of Budapest in 1885. Among the first people to try it were Emperor Franz Joseph and Empress Elisabeth of Austria-Hungary.   
  
-Liebesträume is a set of three piano compositions by Franz Liszt, though of them the third is the most famous. (And I believe Austria actually has played portions of it in the Hetalia anime!) Liebesträume literally means “dreams of love”, and each composition is stylized after a different kind of it. The first, a holy sort of love, the second, erotic, and the third, mature and full love. There are great recordings of all three on youtube, so check it out!


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